


Science and Faith

by Darkravenwrote



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Future, Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Dragon Riders, M/M, Science Fiction, Spaceships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-06
Updated: 2014-04-16
Packaged: 2018-01-18 10:55:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1425910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkravenwrote/pseuds/Darkravenwrote
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a post-apocalyptic future, Arthur returns from Mars to a ruined Earth to aid King Uther's war effort against the last magic, the Dragon Riders.  Little does he know that one encounter with a rider in the prison below Camelot will turn the tides of destiny forever.</p><p>Written for Camelot_Land 'The Big One' challenge - all prompts in one story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this fic is for the Camelot_land assignment 'The Big One.' Because I'm crazy insane I'm attempting to put all 25 prompts of 500 words in one fic. The challenge closes on 16th April '14 so hopefully all of it will be up by then.
> 
> The list of prompts per chapter will be listed in each as they post. You have to squint to see a few but they're totally still there!
> 
> Additionally, I'll be updating the tags as I post.
> 
> Also, **I'm looking for a beta** so if anyone would be willing to offer their services if you could leave a comment that would be great. (6/4/14)
> 
> Comments are love and I feed off of them.
> 
>  
> 
> _Prompts: The Beginning of the End, Valiant, Excalibur, The Crystal Caves, The Queen of Hearts & The Kindness of Strangers_(Seriously, squint).

**Chapter 1**

Arthur hasn't seen Terra for years, let alone set foot upon it. He had an old-fashioned photo in his first bedroom on Mars from several centuries ago. It was taken from space, all lush greens under a thick, healthy layer of cloud. The view he has now, manning the cockpit of his Excalibur and waiting for landing instructions, is quite different.

The clouds are thin, grainy and tinged yellow. The blue is still there but lessened and not the clear, vibrant blue of before but more a murky navy. There is no green. Only brown in large jagged continents that cover more than three quarters of the planet's surface.

He is above Valiant now, hovering just out of reach of the fragile atmosphere. Every year the volume of rainfall decreases by point five of a percent. Every year landmass increases by four centimetres. And it is this husk of a dead planet his father has ordered him back to. This diseased shell of a planet, which Uther is determined to win back.

By the time Arthur's children die it won't even be habitable any more. But Uther started this war and he is stubbornly refusing to admit defeat. Arthur grew to resent him for it long ago.

Valiant will be his one day. He'll rule as king from Camelot, hunt dragons on Uther's behalf and wait for the day he can legitimately enforce an evacuation of this lifeless planet for good. It should have been done years ago, leaving, but there are so many people in so many colonies, no reliable census' since the conflict began and Uther's grip is iron-clad over his domain. Arthur suspects his father is paranoid the other kings are eager for his lands. One wasteland is the same as any other in Arthur's opinion, not all that much worth grappling over.

His comms screen lights up with bright red text to his right, information on the incoming vid-call scrolling across. He knows who it is and swipes his thumb up the warm glass immediately. Kings aren't used to being kept waiting.

“Arthur,” his father's stony face greets him, translucent on the main view screen. He can't help but think there is a poetic symmetry when he compares the face with the scarred, ruined planet it is superimposed on to.

“Father,” he replies expressionlessly, a private game he has played with himself since he was six.

“I have your arrival coordinates.” It's unusual for Uther to handle something so menial, this tells Arthur something.

“You want to keep it hush-hush that I have returned,” he states.

“You are the crown prince, Arthur,” Uther says gravely. “A prime target for the enemy. Of course, I want to keep you safe.” Prince first, not son.

“So why am I back here if it's so dangerous? I won't hide in Camelot until you end this war.”

“It isn't a war.” Arthur hears the silent 'yet.' “Conflict is the preferred terminology.” It hasn't escalated to all out violence on both sides yet but Arthur doesn't think the riders and their pets probably see it so diplomatically. Half a century of raids and executions with no end in sight don't do good things for peace talks. It's a miracle they haven't attacked already. Arthur isn't confident it is a fight they will win.

“Besides,” Uther continues, oblivious to Arthur's musings, “we are Pendragons. We do not end wars, we win them. They're getting bolder. Last week we caught one of their little snakes sneaking into the citadel. I need the crown prince here, Arthur, not gallivanting around the tropical biospheres of Mars with who knows how many questionable females.” He studies Arthur, mouth clenched and eyes firm. “You have a responsibility.” And there it is, that's the line that makes his blood boil. But he dips his head submissively, like always.

“Yes, father,” he murmurs and immediately after the comm starts bleeping quietly as it picks up the transmission packets that contain his instructions and permission. Uther nods once, brisk and business-like before his face flickers.

Arthur is left staring at the sickly continent he will one day inherit. This is only the beginning. The beginning of his end.

* * *

 

The Excalibur is sprint landing capable – vertical thruster descent – but Arthur knows once he's feet down on solid ground he won't be going up again for a while if Uther can help it. Because he's such a flight risk. He puts off the inevitable as long as the regimented courtesy he had drilled into his brain as a child allows. He shivers as they slide through the ragged clouds, feels like it's tainting his girl with yellowish slime. The black quiet of space is replaced by the blinding glare of Terra quadrant two's midday sun – his view screen adjusts accordingly and he pats the worn padding on the arm of his pilot's chair affectionately.

He has spent a lot of time with his girl since he left, had hundreds of adventures. He would trust her more than any breathing, organic life form. She deserves a tune up and some love. He isn't looking forward to topping up her tanks with the semi-polyglute shit that passes for fuel on Terra now that most natural resources have run dry. He thought about leaving her back on Mars but he knew he wouldn't be going back, it felt too much like abandonment. Though he's reluctant, in the unlikely event he'll need her speed to,oh, win a racing bet or, say, run down a stowaway, he'll need her in top form rather than choking on her own fumes.

The world that greets him in the lower troposphere is all brown, flat and dead. Camelot, Valiant's capital and home to the reigning king, rises on the distant Northern horizon. Arthur rechecks the coordinates on his nav before accepting them, punching in a slow decline ratio and settling in to savour the weightlessness of flight. His girl glides soundless and smooth. He thinks about restricting autopilot just so he can bank and roll for the sheer fun of it. Instead, he uses the half hour of gentle travel to mentally prepare himself and take in the sights of his birth place.

He always liked Camelot, felt a connection to it. Maybe it's because Uther always said his mother loved it there and he's trying to forge a bond with a woman he loves but has no memory of. Maybe he's trying to force himself to like the place that will be his prison one day soon, just like how he has to force himself to like the man he calls 'father' these days too.

As they approach and the city becomes less of a three-dimensional speck and more of a dark outline, he can admit it has more personality than the land that surrounds it. The lower town sprawls out further south than he remembers with plenty of tilled fields filled with hardy produce. They are out of growing season for now but the ground is kept ready. The glorified mountain range is a hive of activity even from this distance. Much of the city's trade lies with the precious metals that can be mined from beneath the foundations, not to mention the Crystal Caves which are filled to brimming with precious jewels and other valuable products. Then there is the maze of decaying high rise buildings that doesn't fit with the rest of the city.

And the citadel itself is pure white stone which stands out like angel's wings against all the brown mud and yellow infection and crumbling brick. The castle is an ancient fortress that has somehow withstood the storms of time and the sun's battering, relentless rays. There are old folk tales that claim one of the last great sorcerers blessed the stone with the last of his power before he died, prophesying a long road of suffering and sacrifice that would eventually dawn a new age of peace. Arthur can't see that age any time soon though, especially with Uther stamping out any and all magical connections here in Camelot with his dogged campaign. That's not to say Arthur doesn't believe there's some truth to the stories, the stone has always gleamed unnaturally bright – not that he'd ever mention that to his father.

The remains of the scientific centre, a great, hulking monstrosity, are tastefully hidden behind one of the larger mountains. But that is not where Arthur is heading. He is going straight to the only active airstrip behind the castle. The Excalibur will be housed and maintained in the royal cavern directly beneath the north portion of the citadel. There is no need for the scientific centre any more – not that an scientists stayed long on the planet to run it after the first wave of relocations, there was too much promise of discovery on the new, distant colonies.

And they have no need for a space port. What few visitors they do receive are foreign dignitaries who the royal family will house personally. The only other air traffic is the city guard and they are likewise stationed in the cavern. If people are still on Terra it's either because they don't want to leave or can't afford to any more, so there isn't anything other than the annual shuttle to Mars which is extortionate. And there's no need for a public transport network, where would people travel? Traders who have their own ships are, by law, nomads and belong to no country. Everyone is at war with everyone else and what small percentage of the desert wastelands is inhabitable is crawling with any number of terrifying dragons and other dangers too horrifying to imagine.

By the time they've breached the city limits, the Excalibur's silver belly is nearly touching the dilapidated roofs of the skyscrapers. It's an odd mish-mash of history, even to Arthur who grew up flying these streets. The lower town is squalor and mud and poverty in its purest form, where you live off of what you grow yourself and you help your neighbours so long as your own children won't starve. The upper town, more often referred to as the Inner City, is all giant, creaking concrete structures, somehow still standing strong as they sway ominously in the dusty wind. And the streets beneath them are cracked rubble and overturned tarmac. It's an entirely different kind of wasteland to the one outside the city boundaries, but it is just as bleak and Arthur cannot fathom why his father fights so hard for it. This can't have been humanity's destiny, can it?

The Excalibur sails around the taller spires and towers of the castle, alone in the sky, before circling the short airstrip, which is no more than an oval of bulbs with two long, straight arms reaching out parallel to the castle walls. They aren't even lit at this time of day. His girl touches down gently, he barely feels is in the comfort of his chair – he's proud of that, it took him months to calibrate everything just right for the perfect result.

His pace is reluctant when he heaves himself with a great effort from his chair after checking and rechecking every instrument has deactivated properly – moot, of course they have, he's on the Excalibur. The main hallway suddenly feels far shorter than it ever has before.

His girl is big enough to house two guests as well as himself and still outrace an Utopian Defence Speeder – a light-weight stealth ship the fleet use, supposedly the swiftest of its class. Although he does usually end up kipping in his chair when that happens. She's built for distance travel of the on-planet variety rather than space-faring but she can cope with that too. She's slim and streamline for speed through air pressures and wind currents rather than the void of the black. Her wings are long but angled sharply, like blade tips so he can easily pass between buildings if need be. She's not built for luxury, more quick take-offs and acceleration but Arthur knew that when he bought her against his father's wishes.

The Pendragon crest of a roaring, golden dragon – the irony isn't lost on Arthur – is mostly hidden by the ruddy reddish-brown colour of mars dust now but the shell itself is a decorative red. The dust dims it a bit but it's still visible.

Gwaine is waiting for him when he slides down the metal ladder that extends from the Excalibur's belly – she isn't large enough to warrant a hydrolic ramp and evacuation tubes are damn expensive. He is a welcome sight. Gwaine has been a good friend for a long time. They grew up together – the only young children in the entire citadel at the time.

They haven't seen each other since they were young...supposedly. Of course, Arthur isn't supposed to know that Gwaine tails him for about a month every martian year across the red deserts. But he does, because Gwaine usually does it from the back seat of whichever Rover they have 'borrowed' from the labs.

As far as Uther knows they haven't seen each other since childhood though. It is going to be a hard act to keep up. No more back slaps or secret jokes for a while.

It's going to be strange reacquainting himself with all of the people he left behind and actually hasn't seen over the past years. Leon, for example, will still be a member of his father's household guard. Arthur wonders for a second what assignment he was given after his own hasty departure.

He turns his attention to Gwaine as they start out across the sparse landscape and back towards the citadel. Guards and techies are already sprawling out from the caves below the castle to come and collect his ship.

“Any news?”

“Oh, nothing of interest.” Gwaine replies, eyeing him sideways. Arthur knows to wait for the gossip. The silence stretches but Arthur has too much experience to let it be tense. Eventually Gwaine huffs and says, “You're no fun any more. Anyway, word is the King's got himself a dragon rider shackled up all medieval down in the caves.”

Arthur already knows that, or has guessed it from his father's implications during his transmission. He knows Uther won't have killed him or her, they hold far too much valuable information for that. It's interesting that he hasn't made it common knowledge, not even around the castle. He allows Gwaine to continue uninterrupted – he'll just end up going off on a tangent of innuendo and ghastly, horrendous ideas if he is distracted.

“Most of us were away on a raid at the time. There were reports of a lizard in the mountains getting near to the city. Sent three whole brigades and heaven knows that's most of us nowadays. We get back, scorched and empty handed and there's rumours flying about the castle of spies and intrigue.” His eyes are slitted melodramatically, arms slinging everywhere enthusiastically. “Course, when we asked no one would tell us a sodding thing.” He sniffs here, picks a spot of dust from his sleeve – a useless pursuit – and moves on like he hasn't been overlooked and the story actually isn't of any import.

“And guess whose Queen has finally been chosen, my liege?” Gwaine bows low, arm flourishing out behind him. Arthur hides the wince behind a disinterested cough. He'd known there were other reasons Uther wanted him home. Hoped this wasn't one of them though. Unfortunate.

“Who is she then?” He asks, increasing his stride length and throwing his head back a little. Gwaine can appreciate the power of a good strut.

“Name's Guinevere. Daughter of a metal worker from the lower town. She's been given the Hearts. You'll like her, easygoing and kind, as the name suggests. Pretty too. Haven't had the chance to bed her yet but I'll let you know how that turns out too.” Arthur gets an elbow nudging him in his side with that and he can't help the laugh that strangles out of his throat. Poor girl.

The council chooses a suitable spouse for every heir born. It is an archaic tradition but it seems to work. There have never been records of an unhappy marriage. But kings and queens write the records – dictate them anyway – and they aren't going to want their legacy dragged through the mud. The arrangement benefits the health of the society though. The Chosen is always low born, never from inside the citadel and they are picked for certain attributes. Arthur's mother was the Queen of Diamonds, made royal by her outstanding beauty. This Guinevere, his Queen of Hearts, will be kind and compassionate beyond all others. Could be worse, he could have gotten a Club, the smart ones are always condescending.

* * *

 

Uther is waiting for them atop the stone steps in the courtyard. Arthur had forgotten how daunting walking through the iron gates can be. The spires of the castle are endlessly high and the gnarled gargoyles stare down grotesquely. It's unnerving. Not to mention his father's unwaveringly cold eyes.

Arthurs meets his queen-to-be that night at dinner. Uther has the banquet hall prepared for a welcoming feast but it is all a display of power, the decadence he can summon with a stomp of his feet. There is only the three of them sat at the table – its top is all polished wood and gleaming silver – and the honour guard at the perimeter is minimum. But Arthur can see shadows behind the tapestries up in the gallery and he doubts Uther's paranoia would let them be too far. Gwaine is suspiciously absent from any post.

She is as kind as her Hearts title suggests. She is calm, except when she stumbles over her own insecurities – 'Call me Gwen. Unless that's too informal. You can stick with Guinevere...if you like. Or if that's too long? Gwen's fine' – and understanding. She seems to empathise with Arthur's situation without him having to explain with more than heavy eyes and forced pleasantries for his father's viewing. The whole thing is unfortunate in some ways, he thinks instantly that they could have been good friends. She definitely isn't the worst future spouse the king and his council could have picked.

There is much conversation over the weather and Uther's dietary changes but little about the economic climate and nothing of the 'conflict'. It's probably being saved for a later time when they are alone. Arthur suspects Uther will want to gloat about the famous prisoner everyone's been so cagey about.

He's right. As soon as as he places his dessert spoon quietly down – it's a luxury but they are still royalty – Uther stands, meets his stare meaningfully. Arthur bids Gwen a good night even though the sun has barely set. She catches the hint gracefully, like she has been playing political chess her entire life, and brushes her lips to his cheek before leaving them. Arthur's following the king's swift, purposeful stride before he can process that they are moving. There is the urge to half trot to keep up, like he used to as a boy, but he's a man now, a prince, with pride and honour and longer legs. Even though they burn slightly from the disuse of a weeks' worth of space travel he lengthens his steps, grits his teeth and refuses to complain.

Arthur knows they are heading for the caves when all the windows are suddenly gone. His memories of the castle are faded and he has only been down here once or twice but it is the only logical conclusion there is.

Occasionally, maybe once a year, Arthur's dreams will return to the expanse of caves that curl and maze beneath and between the foundations of Camelot. In these dreams everything is dark and dingy and there is water dripping. The bars of the cells are mouldy. In reality, they are nothing like this. The sconces on the walls are few and far between but the light from the flames flickers on every crystal, shining a bright spectrum edged vivid blue when they pierce through the other side which reverberates everywhere around the caves. The guards stationed down here call it 'ghost light'.

The crystals themselves are a mystery, even to the sorcerers of old. They have an unknown property that allows them to restrict and bind magic entirely, leaving sorcerers in the cells completely helpless. Unfortunately, it does the same for most technology, hence the archaic lighting system. The crystals used to be half buried in the dark stone until a traitor wrangled one free of the stone and used its dagger edge to slash his own throat. Since then all crystals have been removed from the cells and instead are piled regularly between each cell out of reach. Uther ruled it too dangerous to remove any of them in case their effects were decreased – Arthur still has one lodged behind the original oak dresser in his castle bedroom, not that he's had time to check it it's still there after all these years.

The caves smell of rot and disease. The cells they pass are clean though. The stench and the tension are all memories, like screams echoing down the empty passageways from years ago, and they make Arthur clasp his hands rigidly behind his back. Not many of the cells are in use – the soldiers of Valiant are under strict instructions to exterminate all dragons and their sorcerers without question these days.

The cell Uthere gestures him towards, like he wants to forcefully push him to the bars but wants to avoid skin contact, is directly opposite one of the exit tunnels. Although he has never practised the escape, Arthur is aware of all three emergency routes out of Camelot should he ever need to run from an attack they have no hope of winning. He eyes it cautiously, breathes the stale air into his lungs from its mouth that would be fresh and cold only one hundred metres from where he currently stands.

“Talk to him,” the king orders, no nonsense, flicking a key at his chest which Arthur palms instinctively. There are no guards. Then he is gone, whisking away in a swirl of royal fabric and leather – another rare commodity that displays his wealth.

The sorcerer is hunched towards the back of his cell, glaring mournfully at the heap of crystals in his line of sight and playing with a stone – strong, nimble fingers swift and sure even though he isn't paying attention to what he is doing. The bones of his face are sharp beneath his pale skin – the trickster lights make it look translucent, ethereal. He's all cheekbones like dagger slashes, plush lips like temptation and dark curls like smoke. And eyes. His eyes are innocent and wide like a child's but the blue is deep like the oceans of legend, clouded with secrets and danger. Maybe that's the ghost light too.

“They've sent you down here to question me?”

“You're a dangerous assassin, not deaf. I know you heard.”

“Your king's inquisitor couldn't stab the secrets out of me, why do you think you can, prince?”

“You know who I am,” Arthur states.

“Everyone knows who you are.”

“I could snap you with an unarmed laser gun,” Arthur threatens, violence is his default when he starts to feel his temper bubbling.

“I could snap you with less than that.”

“In here?” Arthur all but snarls. The sorcerer lowers his head, concedes the point. The small victory makes Arthur brasher. “You got a name?”

The sorcerer considers, eyebrows lowering confused. “No one's asked me my name since I've been locked up down here.”

“Then no one you've spoken to has any manners.”

“The king questioned me himself.”

“As I said.”

That causes a change in the way he's being considered. “Merlin,” he says clearly through thinned lips, eyes darting from one end of the bars of his cell to the other, searching for guards.

“Arthur,” he replies, although the sorcerer already knows this. “And there aren't any down this far.”

Merlin doesn't reply for several minutes, instead he sits there, hunched in his corner and considers Arthur with scrupulous, unblinking eyes, the blue so bright it glows. When he speaks, it's slowly like he is considering and reconsidering every word he says, worried Arthur will be misunderstood. “You don't agree with some of the king's philosophies?” Arthur notes that there is no mention of their relationship, their shared blood.

“Some of them,” he shrugs, like this isn't edging towards treason. Like he isn't discussing delicate matters with the enemy.

Merlin slides to his feet – Arthur thinks it's a monumental moment the way he does it so gracefully, eyes still lingering on Arthur's face, but then he stumbles on his first step towards the bars and Arthur coughs to cover his snigger.

“And the war?”

“Conflict,” Arthur automatically corrects. One long-fingered hand extends from Merlin's haggard cloak, flicking at the air non-consequentially. He is taller than Arthur thought he would be and he takes an involuntary half step back as he approaches despite his stick like limbs. Sorcerers are known for being cheaters and liars.

“Whatever you want to call it,” he says although his eyebrows twitch, forehead creasing, giving away his true feelings on the semantics. “You have your own ideas about it?”

“So what if I do. The King is the King. His rules are absolute.”

“You think we're all killers?”

“I've been back on Terra less than a day. I don't know what I think yet.” Which isn't exactly true. It isn't like he has had his head down a Marshian's burrow while he was on Mars. He knows what has been going on back here at home. He knows how unfair he thinks the entire catastrophe is. He knows he doesn't agree with his father. He knows it isn't justified. But speaking out against the king is an entirely different matter than thinking a little outside of his iron box of laws. It's obvious that Merlin reads his lie as well, his chin drops and he hums quietly to himself.

“Would you help me if you could?”

“My duty is to Valiant,” Arthur replies immediately.

“And slaughtering my people, is that for Valiant or for the king?” Merlin allows a silence to settle heavily between them before he appears to come to some sort of decision. He draws himself up to his full height, a few inches above Arthur's own respectable stature, and breathes a long, deep breath, like he is about to jump from a very high cliff. “Do you know what a Debt is?”

Of course he does. Every child hears the stories and fairy tales that come with it in school, the lore. Arthur is no exception, although his teacher was much more secretive due to his father's aversion to such things.

“It's magic,” he says, injecting as much spite as he can into the answer.

“It's old magic,” Merlin specifies, leaning against the bars but making no attempt to reach through them. This close the shadow under his cheekbones looks hollowed out like he is a starving man and the blue of his eyes is glittering and earnest. “I'd be in your debt if you released me from this prison.”

“You think I'm an idiot?”

“You could ask me anything you wanted.”

It's the kind of deal his father would be interested in hearing about. But this is something between himself and Merlin. The rebel inside him, raving through his veins with excitement at such an opportunity loudly, ricochets around his skull and pounds in his chest.

“How the bond works,” Merlin whispers and Arthur leans closer to hear him, watching his lips quiver as he talks. It's true a squad of fliers would recapture him within the day if he were to let him loose.

“How many of us are left,” Merlin breathes, Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. There isn't enough air in the cave, Arthur feels like he's drowning, being seduced by the idea. His father will think he's trying to prove himself, that he has a plan, confident of the easy recapture of his prisoner.

“Where the nest is,” Merlin murmurs, his breath ghosting over Arthur's clammy skin, ruffling at his fringe of hair.

“Magic doesn't work down here,” Arthur hears himself mumble.

“My magic doesn't. Debt magic is of the earth and the air.”

“We'll just hunt you down again. Why would I want a Debt from someone who'll be back in here or dead this time tomorrow?” Arthur reasons weakly.

“Then why not? If you're so confident you'll catch me again, what have you got to lose?”

“I don't even know you,” Arthur says even as he feels the idea catch inside him, tempting him past all reason.

“Think of it as a business arrangement.” Arthur hadn't realised how close they were until now. Merlin's lips quiver and he feels the vibration like a tornado against his own. He shakes his head minutely, tries to clear it. “A kindness then,” Merlin amends, seeing his discomfort.

Arthur gulps past the sawdust in his throat, ignores the rawness there. Forces his lungs to expand. Watches Merlin's eyelashes flutter at the resulting puff of air.

“A Debt then?” He confirms finally.

“A Debt,” Merlin hisses gravely back.

“How do you make the contract,” because even this deep in over his head Arthur's not an idiot. He knows magic is entrenched in bindings and ceremonies and traditions.

“You're sure?” Merlin asks one more time, which strikes Arthur as odd because surely he should want to be out of here like a man from the desert craving water.

“No,” he laughs, the sounds clapping like thunder off the quiet walls. “But do it anyway.” He chews on his lip, stares at the sorcerer whose nose is peaking out through the bars, almost brushing his own.

Merlin dives forward, quick like a viper attacking. The lips against his are soft but unyielding, crushing against his mouth. It isn't a kiss, not further than the anatomical sense of the word. More like a fight. Then there's the rumbling shaking the crystals and the loose stones, rattling them across the floor of the cave. It vibrates up through his boots, juddering up his spine, drumming in his skull until his teeth clack aggressively with Merlin's. The jolt of power across his skin and through his blood feels like electricity, buzzing angrily until it settles at the harsh point where they are connected.

When Arthur wrenches himself away, it is to find Merlin looking at him expectantly. He swipes the key from his pocket, convinced one of the guard higher up will have heard all of that noise. The lock is stiff but clicks open when the right force is applied.

He juts his chin towards the mouth of the cave behind him as Merlin slides from his prison, sweeps his palm across Arthur's torso as he goes gently. “Always turn right whenever there's a path. It'll take you out into the inner city, Sector B4.”

“You don't want your Debt repaid?” Merlin asks, unsure, steps hesitant as he inches towards the dark unknown.

“You'll be back here within twenty-four hours. I'd like to think on it,” Arthur says assuredly. Cocky. Quirking a smile. He isn't expecting the grin he gets back.

  
“Suite yourself,” Merlin shrugs, disappearing into shadow.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: My attempt at action. Let me know how I did.  
> Still looking for a beta (10/4/14)  
>  _Prompts: Beauty and the Beast, The Hunter's Heart, The Sorcerer's Shadow._

Science and Faith 

 

Chapter 2

Arthur has never seen a dragon before.

Right now, he thinks he's thankful to have gone his whole life thus far without witnessing it. In fact, he could have lived happily for the rest of his life without the current image he has branding itself on the back of his eyelids.

It started, seconds that feel like centuries ago, with the brief shaking of the massive skyscraper he is surveying. At first he thought it might have been his right-fore thruster brushing too close to the crumbling brickwork. He chastised himself and rounded the corner, careful of his spacing now. He wasn't so much suspicious at that point, more alert and curious like he's supposed to be on hunts. And he didn't even notice the giant, whiteness on the tower above him – it's just dismissed as another sun dyed scar.

Then there's the sound: a low rumbling growl so deep and so loud it burns his eardrums. Like a thunder cloud exploding furiously, rattling his bones and throbbing through the whole ship, drowning out the Excalibur's kittenish purr.

It scrapes one of its hooked talons across the building, cascading brick and rubble everywhere. That's when Arthur finally sees it, his eyes are drawn to the slow, meaningful movement. Even as he knows he should be executing evasive manoeuvres to avoid the falling debris, he is glued motionless in his seat. Helpless. Committing the awful, slow-motion tableau to memory.

Its wings are furled at its back, cradling the rider nestled there obscenely gently when it could shred a human like a leaf or swallow them whole depending on its whim. Its scales are a pearly white only somewhat obscured by the layers and layers of crusty mud and an ugly substance Arthur thinks is ageing blood but doesn't really want to think too hard about.

Its head cranes around, long and deceptively slender but from the bunching and shifting with the movement Arthur knows it's all muscle and power, like a viper uncoiling to attack. It shrieks at him when he accidentally nudges the Excalibur closer in pure shock. The snout isn't as long as he always imagined but he is too busy staring in awe at the rows upon rows of sharp, sharp teeth – each of them a creamy-yellow shade that makes Arthur think of the wilderness – jammed into the maw of the thing. All gnashing and threatening in front of the blackness of its gullet. Arthur thinks he can see the embers of its fire smouldering there at the back of its throat.

Its hackles quiver and its back arches, creaking and popping over the sound of Arthur's engines like old wood ready to splinter, before leaping from the building, roar tearing his ears, making his teeth judder in his skull. Thick spines protrude from the scales along its back. Hoods of bone shield its pitch, lifeless eyes from the worst of the wind. They are absolute, eternal and entirely merciless.

That is when the first rocks raining from above start to hit. It snaps Arthur out of his horror. He swings into action. From the corner of his eye, he sees the dragon's wings snapping aggressively, catching and jagging on buildings as it searches for the right air currents. Rock and debris spew around him, a hail storm of broken architecture.

He slams the throttle. Hisses when his girl protests and whacks at the auto-course correct to shut it off. Punches at the gas again and is rewarded with a sweeping gush of speed that takes them down and out of danger. Collision alarms blare, red lights flashing. The wheel protests when he pushes his body's weight against it, it's already fully decompressed on the descent axis – she can't go down any faster.

His intercept screen looks more like a red ocean than a foreign object locator and he ignores it. Flicks on the additional viewers that pop on along the left side of his main view screen, they're too small to be much good but it's better than nothing.

He is so busy dodging a tonne of crap that could damage his hull or scrape the plating beyond repair or lodge itself in who only knows where, that he loses sight of the dragon. When he glances around for it again, it's nowhere to be seen. Sheer panic is immediate. Sets his pulse racing and his heart up into his throat as he barrel rolls under a concrete block.

Something pounds against the roof above the cockpit. He actually wishes it were debris but the squealing like the sound a cat makes when it's being strangled tells him otherwise. The whole ship lurches forward, nose dipping as the noise bullets over his head, much like the chill that shoots up his spine. One deadly claw rips through the space-faring, six inch thick titanium plating of the hull, piercing into the cockpit. There's no way for Arthur to distance himself any more, no safe place where he can detach himself.

There is a dragon...sitting on his roof.

The Excalibur is spiralling out of control under the extra weight. And there's nothing he can do to save his own life. A dragon can fly ten times faster than one of the ejection pods and that is his only other option here, except plummeting to his death.

Another spiky claw smashes against the main view screen. Luckily the reinforced diamond-plated glass holds – his girl's still got some fight in her yet. Its tail end connects with a scraper and he's thrown from his chair. Bites his tongue on the way down. Maybe breaks a finger – can't tell with all the whirling adrenalin.

There is so much noise, it is disorientating. He loses his bearings, can't tell which way is up any more. There is another crash against the view screen, heavy and unforgiving. Arthur can smell smoke, thinks it is the thrusters straining, the engines preparing to give out under the load.

When the pressure disappears from the hull, the release of pressure on the smoking thrusters catapults them upwards. Arthur smacks into the sheet metal of the floor. Feels blood on his forehead, warm and wet.

He grasps for the struts of his chair, drags himself back to it. His muscles feel weak, like they have had the life leached from them. But he has been trained since childhood. Never give up. Pendragon. He climbs back to his feet wearily, sprawls in his chair then gets his spine under him again. Gets his senses under control. Ignores the dizziness. Breathes deeply.

The dragon is already ahead of him, sailing above what used to be AX2 Main. Arthur glares, glances at the comms unit, whacks the weapons system online instead and pursues.

But before he can acquire the target for the auto-comp to lock on and track they're veering hard right onto BV1 Main and into Sector B2 of the city. Arthur clings to his wheel so tightly his knuckles turn from an angry red to a thin white. He grits his teeth, determined. His heart pounds loudly in his ears, at his neck, everywhere. But he won't give this up, near death experience or not. He'll see this hunt through to the end, even if it is his body that gives out first.

There is no point contacting the rest of the squad he has been given him command over. He was the last member surveying Sector B3, where he thought Merlin might be by this morning. And B2 where he is now has definitely been swept and deserted again, perceived vacant. He's on his own.

He is gaining on them. The speed of flight is doing sickening things to his stomach, he feels ill, like he has spent all night with a bucket and there's nothing else to come up but bile. He glances at the tiny crack at the top of his main screen nervously, but his girl has never failed him before. She'll hold together until he's satisfied. He twists another inch of forward out of the wheel, feels the hydraulics creak and ache with the effort but give him that last bit of juice all the same.

His fingers crawl back towards the auto-comp of the weapons system. If he could just...

The hairpin left takes him by surprise. He follows reflexively, jerks the wheel. Nearly gets thrown from his chair again with the angle. Whips his left hand back to the leather and tenses when the Excalibur doesn't quite make it round sharply enough. Her right wing clips a two story window, he watches it shatter in the rear cam on the main screen.

Sweeping right. Dodge rubble. Right. Left. Right again. Speeding above the highway. Arthur's catching up. Closing the gap. Just a little faster. A little further.

He's close enough that when Merlin peaks under his elbow he sees the electric blue of his eyes, wide under the dark hair plastered across his face. His lips are red and cheeks flushed. They stare at each other.

He looks dark against the creature he is riding, but so graceful. It stands to reason that, as he has never seen a dragon before, Arthur has never seen a rider either. Certainly not in the act. He thought it would look odd, unnatural and down right uncomfortable. But for Merlin it looks natural. Like he has been doing it all of his life. Was born to it.

There is no saddle to speak of, only a ragged scrap of leather fitted snugly at the dragon's shoulders. There are two pits of twisted metal on either side, high up, where Merlin's toes take the burden of his weight. Merlin's legs are curled up tight so his knees brush his elbows where his arms are reaching forward, grasping a leather throng tied around the last spine on the dragon's pale neck. He is bent is two and he is in constant motion, perched atop the leather, not actually sitting on it. Arthur can see the beast’s shoulder blades working its wings between the spread of Merlin's taut thighs. His knees are soft and he rises and falls with the motion of flight, the repetitive up down of the wings, leaning into the turns. He's graceful like he isn't on the ground, in his element. So different from the hideous creature he's flying with. A beauty atop the beast.

The dragon's spiny tail splinters the corner off another building as it swings another sharp left, Merlin folding himself into the turn. Arthur can see his face bright with the exertion in profile, eyes slitted to the wind, chin down and mouth set in a grim line – although his lips are so plush it looks more like a pout.

Arthur loses some ground in his distraction. They're heading into the sun now on S42 Sub, a street that is too narrow for both of them. Arthur doesn't dare take one hand off the wheel in favour of the auto-comp when a slight slip could send him crashing down as a heap of burning metal.

He's close enough that the tail will be a problem soon. It's swinging violently to and fro like a giant, spiked pendulum and one hit from that will break his compromised view screen for sure. He swoops down into their shadow, hopes he can pressure them into a mistake soon.

Arthur finds himself at an impasse. He doesn't want to injure Merlin, but he's not protected in any way. If the dragon goes down, Merlin's going with it. He needs to make them land. Or get them close at least. Shoot out a wing. Force the beast back onto its feet where its movements will be cumbersome and heavy.

He realises his tactical error at the same time as Merlin. Their eyes catch when Merlin stares down at him, view impaired half the time by wing beats. He could easily cause Arthur to crash now. Sink towards the ground with the Excalibur underneath the creature, stuck in its shadow. Until she's too low, brushing the ruptured tarmac. Arthur wouldn't be able to control an emergency landing at this speed. Merlin knows that too, if the stillness in his wide eyes is anything to go by.

But that doesn't happen. The dragon tilts its body and suddenly Arthur's following it vertical, vertical and up and up and then back. The dragon raises its chin, cants the front of its wings. Its long, serpentine form arcs back, swinging upside down in a huge circle. And Arthur can't do anything but follow, reflexively glancing at the green light on the ceiling of the cockpit that signals his artificial gravity is still working. Being upside down on Terra is terrifyingly disorientating compared to being upside down in space – namely because the concept doesn't exist out among the stars.

They are above the skyscrapers now, hurtling over them in a staggering arch. Until the dragon tucks its wings rigid and close to its body, starts to spin and agilely dives to the left, tail whipping out behind it. Arthur isn't anywhere near as graceful. In fact, he feels like he left his stomach behind on one turn and his heart at the top of his answering plummet. He feels more like a dead weight sinking in a lake than a highly advanced technological machine in a slipstream.

This high, Arthur can see the edge of the city through the gaps in the buildings. They are getting close. He dares to look at his rear screen again, sees the citadel in the distance, far behind them.

Then his concentration is stolen by the dragon's evasion again. Chasing it through dives, avoiding snatching claws when he ventures too close, rolling away from that punching tail.

The fact that Merlin's smiling now, his white teeth flashing in the sun, pisses him off. He can't believe the little idiot is enjoying this life or death tussle. It's not a joke! Merlin will go back to incarceration when Arthur captures him. When.

He has given up reaching for the weapons system though. Tells himself it's because all his attention is needed to keep up with the dragon's acrobatics.

It plunges down between the buildings again, bursts from the confines of the city dramatically seconds later. They're above the lower town now. He can see people far, far below them, specks on the dark ground. No weapons here either. Arthur pretends not to be relieved.

There is not much Arthur can do here other than continue his chase. So he follows, keeps a respectable distance. Rolls his eyes whenever the dragon suddenly changes direction like it thinks it can slip away out here in the open. Can't help the reluctant smile now that the pressure of death and injury is gone.

At some point it turns into a game. The dragon lets Arthur get comfortable, keeps the pace slow as they glide over the townspeople and their homes, circle around towards the citadel the long way, bypassing the rest of the city. They are currently heading for the mountains. And then when it thinks Arthur has relaxed – he totally hasn't – it will weave around him, roar and dive. He keeps up easily, they aren't even going that fast any more.

The long stretch of air between them and the mountains closes with little event. Just flashes of Merlin's smile and Arthur forcing himself to glare.

They are directly over the mountain range when it happens. The dragon plummets again, nothing new, and Arthur follows. But it doesn't stop. Speeds up. Wings tucked tight. God, Merlin's arse looks perfect like that, hovering above the leather, thighs spread, bent low, practically in two. It's very distracting.

Arthur starts to feel uncomfortable when they hit the speed where some of Merlin's ragged coat tears off. And they're still racing straight down, the sparse woodland rising up to greet them. Still the dragon doesn't turn, shows no interest in stopping.

Arthur breaks first, wrenching the wheel backwards so hard it quivers and tugs in his fingers. It's too late though, the turning is too sharp and he is going too fast. He knows it's a lost cause even as he bites his lip, tastes the copper of blood, and strains his muscles warring with the wheel. He feels something snap under his hands, there is a give that should not be there. Like his girl is giving up, has run out of steam and attitude.

White flashes across his vision as the dragon's sleek form twists out of the way, its serpentine body navigating the acute bend with an ease the Excalibur can't. The main screen shatters abruptly, spraying Arthur. He feels pinpricks of pain across his face but is too busy staring, aghast, at the small body of water waiting for him to care.

Smoke is drifting poisonously from beneath his feet, the engines are whirring with panic and alarms deafen him. Everything is white. White noise and the imprint of white scales on the back of his eyelids. He closes them now, breathes in the fumes deeply once. Lets them whistle back out through his pursed lips. Tries to keep calm while death opens her arms to welcome him and his heart beats through his ribs.

It's only the sheer speed they're falling and his solid grip on the wheel that prevent him from flying through the empty screen. But his clutch is sweaty and slippery, loosening by the millisecond. And the Excalibur is tilting, the engines tottering before finally giving out. Their course destabilises. Arthur vaguely realises they are slanting upside down again now he is familiar with the sensation.

Without the artificial gravity his thighs come free from his chair. He can't breath, he is convinced his lungs are blocking his throat. Everything is too tight, he's suffocating. His fingers slide on the wheel as the ship turns onto her back. He is lifting. Disorientated. Lost. Free falling. Loses his connection with the Excalibur. His back slams against the ceiling. He thinks he whines but everything is too loud, he isn't sure. Glass rains on him, gentle like crystals before they are swept up in a storm around the cockpit.

He can't see the water any more. He closes his eyes again. Tries to ignore his rattling teeth and the fact that his skull feels empty. Brain already asleep and resigned.

When she hits to water it's like no pain he's ever felt before. He thinks of the city, of every building collapsing on his prone body at once. Thinks of a spaceship smashing him into the ground, landing on him. He feels the crack, distantly is aware it is his own head on the metal ceiling. There's more white. White, hot, scalding pain everywhere. So much of it he can't breathe.  Daggers stabbing his lungs and chest from the inside.

Then the water starts rushing in, stabbing at him like a thousand knives at once. He doesn't want to breathe now. Even if he could expand his lungs inside the smashed remains of his ribcage. Even if his heart wasn't rabbiting twice as big as it should be, edging up past his clavicle. Even if he could move, twitch a finger or a toe.

Even though they've been shut, there is glass stinging in his eyes. The freezing water sloshes into the cabin, burrows its way under his skin. He still can't move. He has enough mental power left to feel his fear level ratchet up higher. People say drowning is a horrible way to go – he doesn't know who says it though. Either way he thinks, absently, that he would have preferred the fall had killed him. A crash in a spaceship is more royal, fitting for an accomplished pilot too. Drowning is like his body betraying him, admitting he can't do something. But even Pendragon's can't breathe water, no matter how violently his father might wish it.

He chokes on the first splash on his face. Then he is being sucked through the hole left by the glass and diamond, powerless. Weak. He remembers the strength of the water tugging at his limbs, pulling them in opposite directions. The scrape of the Excalibur on his back as he slips free from her embrace. It is their farewell.

He doesn't remember much after that. Just more white.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately I haven't made the challenge in time. There's still 2 or 3 chapters to go. That's why this one is a little shorter, because I wanted to get these 3 prompts in before the end time. I'll keep posting this though. Thank you to everyone who has left kudos and supported :) It's really appreciated.
> 
> Prompts: The Drawing of the Dark, Sweet Dreams, The Nightmare Begins

Chapter 3

When Arthur stirs, it is to the feeling of the scorching sun blistering his face and the stench of old blood that has festered wafting over him. His first instinct is to roll and gag but his muscles are numb and unresponsive. He feels worryingly separate from his body.

Another rancid breath on his skin again. The shock of it punching into his lungs feels like poison stinging his innards. He purses his lips and steams the putrid air out. There is a rumbling growl in reply from above. The air shifts with movements and darkness blocks out the illuminated pink of his closed eyelids.

“I wouldn't aggravate her if I were you,” says a cheerful voice off to his right. “She wasn't all that keen on saving you in the first place.” Arthur hears wood crackling, sparks hissing, fat sizzling. The warm, moist smell of meat cooking is subtle under the dragon's breath but still there. He wets his cracked lips with his dry tongue, winces when that breaks the delicate skin.

He doesn't really want to peel his eyes open, remembers teeth that could slice him in half and cold eyes, but he's no coward. The sun blinds him anyway, makes him squint. A headache simmers at his temples. By the time his vision isn't pure, agonising brightness, the dragon has moved away. The purposeful flick of its spiny tail makes him cringe. His bones ache and his muscles itch but there's nothing like the razor pain of broken bones and internal organs imploding. He's surprised, godsmacked really, to be aware at all – takes a moment to appreciate the sky, ugly pus-yellow clouds and all.

“Who's aggravating who here?” He grits out through his clenched teeth, unnerved by how utterly alien his body feels. “Where are we anyway?”

“The mountains,” Merlin replies, nonchalant. It hadn't occurred to Arthur that the mountainous scrub lands to the west of the city might actually be Merlin's homeland nowadays, since the riders were banished from Camelot. “Did you know the Lake of Avalon is the largest body of water on this entire continent? It's the reason Camelot was settled near here in the first place.”

“Why, yes,  Mer lin. As the crown prince  of Camelot I did happen to know that,” Arthur can't help but snipe back, trying to ignore the pins and needles doing uncomfortable acrobatics up his legs and closer to his groin. He's also trying to ignore the feeling of water, wet and heavy and thick - suffocating – pounding over him. He pauses, then says hesitantly because he already knows the answer, “The Excalibur?”

“Your ship?” Merlin asks and Arthur sees him glance up from his work by the fire. “Gone.” His eyes linger for a moment, then turn away, giving Arthur his privacy. He grieves, the sadness is there deep in his gut, a pang, but he is intelligent enough to appreciate his own life over perfectly sculpted metal and artful mazes of wires. He'll miss her though, she has been his trusty companion and protector through many years.

It's obvious Merlin has healed him with magic, let it scuttle across his body like a wave of diseased locusts. Arthur should be disgusted, it is a plague he's been fighting – or more realistically, distancing himself from fighting – his whole life. But every instinct geared towards self-preservation is screaming at him to be grateful, to just say 'thank you' and be done with it. That would mean acknowledging the fact that Merlin the Rider has magic, that he is the enemy when Arthur is finding that he actually quite likes Merlin the Man, what little of he knows of him. 

So instead he asks, “How many hours does it take to get back to Camelot from here?” Because it would take about ten minutes of smooth flying – he knows, he's done it – but he has to defer to Merlin's greater knowledge of the land here. He doesn't particularly want to end up dying of dehydration, alone and half-starved and ravaged by nightmares of tidal waves.

“Well, that depends,” Merlin answers cryptically.” About a week of rough trekking if the hunting's good.”

“Or?” Arthur asks evenly, palms sweating into the dry dirt because he can't see or hear the dragon but he has an awfully bad feeling he knows where this is going.

“Or about ten minutes on the dragon express, fifteen if you want to take in some of the local sights,” and good Lord there is that cheeky smile that's all adorable teeth and flushed happiness. “It'd cost you though,” Merlin adds slyly, eyes slitting when he shoots him a look.

“Yeah? And how much would directions cost me?” Arthur counters immediately. There is no  way he is getting on one of those things.

“Ohh, I don't know,” Merlin says, like he's actually considering and doesn't already know.  “Not sure you could afford that either. They're both pretty expensive.”

“Let me guess; they'd both cost me a whole Favour,” Arthur states.

“Well, to be honest, I'm not sure you can charge someone half a Favour. So, yeah, basically.”

“Guess I'll just be heading east then,” scowls and wills himself upright, stares down at where his legs are stretched up silently. His stomach gurgles angrily but he isn't sure it's protesting the movement or whether it has just caught scent of the food sizzling on Merlin's fire.

He could go south, head for the mines and hope he finds someone willing to take him back to the lower town and give up some of their precious food.  But the lower towns people are a close net community, often suspicious of outsiders and they wouldn’t necessarily recognise him as royalty.  He might not encounter them at all, might not even get that far.  He’s safer heading directly for Camelot, try to pick a slightly northern heading so he’ll arrive closer to the citadel.

“Before you bumble off into the wilderness like the right clotpole you are,” Merlin huffs, interrupting his calculations concerning his chances of survival, “you might as well pilfer some of my rabbit too.”

“It's not pilfering if you've offered it to me,” Arthur bickers back.

“Semantics. You wouldn't say thanks for that either so it might as well be,” Merlin snaps, looking scandalised and hurt. His wide, blue eyes are flecked with a bright, sunshine gold – just in case Arthur doesn't know what he's annoyed about.

“I didn't ask you to save me!” He yells, rocketing to his feet with the adrenalin that surges into his blood.

“What kind of arsehole wouldn't have!” Merlin shouts back like he truly still believes in human kindness for nothing.

“A sorcerer at war with the kingdom?” Arthur asks sarcastically, because what kind of stupid question is that?

“Maybe I want to use you as a hostage. Hah! Didn't think of that, did you?” Merlin crows, bouncing on his toes excitedly.

“You just offered me a ride home,” Arthur replies bluntly.

“Oh my God, you  have  to win everything, don't you.” Merlin flings his arms into the air melodramatically and turns back to his fire. “You're one of  those  people.”

Arthur coughs, outraged, but decides glaring around to see where he is will do him more good than glaring at Merlin's unresponsive back. He throws a dirty look his way for the sake of it anyway. It makes him feel monumentally better.

The mountains are a wasteland of hilltops and oxygen starved peaks. He will have to navigate through the lower paths or he won't survive. The nights will be below freezing and the days will be furnace hot. Food will be scarce and water even scarcer and he is liable to go insane sheerly from hearing only his own voice. And all the while he is walking through the labyrinth of rock and dust, the smoke of Camelot's hearths close enough to touch but unreachable. He wishes Merlin and his beast had left him to die in the water. This way is likely to be harsher and more painful. Long and drawn out.

There are scrubby little bushes dotted around on the stale soil, a dark, dank green that look mostly dead. This area used to be forest and fresh, rolling hills over the mines, covered in greenery.  Now the tree limbs that still stand are black and lifeless, stabbing from the ground.

Arthur refuses to talk to his companion through the meal when Merlin finally gestures him over by waving an enticing piece of meat his way. The smell tempts him in despite his bad temper. The dragon is still noticeably absent, Arthur wonders if Merlin sent it away because of his obvious discomfort.

And when they are done? He nods, just once shortly and when Merlin's back is half turned so he isn't sure if he sees, and heads west, makes sure he glances back once more to take in Merlin's profile like a man starving. The sun is starting to descend so it's easy to navigate and he soon finds a valley he can see straight through, heads straight for miles. It's not protected from the sun but it keeps him on course.

He hopes there aren't any dragons down here. Not that he's feeling particularly optimistic about surviving this anyway.

He contemplates returning to the lake, looking for any parts of the Excalibur he might be able to use. But the likelihood of stumbling across her comms system on the shore is slim to none, there isn't enough luck left on Terra for something like that.

He hikes for hours, ignores how all the landscape is the same depressing dryness. His thick flight jacket ends up tied by the sleeves around his waist – it's too bulky for it but he forces the knot to tie, and wrinkles his nose at the overpowering smell his body has been busy producing underneath. Ship boots are thankfully thick and suitable for long distance walks – they have to withstand accidents in engine rooms.

He barely notices the drawing of the dark until the cold settles into his bones. He decides shelter is in order for the night when his breath clouds into his eyes and freezes his eyelashes together. There a small caves all along the valley and, when he can bare the swift chill that has fallen no longer, he slides into one and pulls his jacket securely over himself.

It has been a trying day. He doesn't know how many hours he has been walking or how long he was unconscious while Merlin tended him but the stress of near death should earn an early night, right? The cold is close but dry, makes his little cave feel claustrophobic. But he is sinking into dreams as soon as he shuts his eyes. Down, down.

Down and into the redness of Mars' deserts, where there is no water to drown in, only the endless, comforting sand. Gwaine is there, searching for him but never seeing him. At first Arthur thinks of it as a fun game but then the loneliness sets in, the abandonment of being looked straight through. All the while with Uther's cold, heavy eyes staring down from the stars. And dragon spines shooting from the soil, puncturing at his toes. And then he is falling into the blackness of space but it is thick and warm and there is seaweed sliding its slippery fingers across his skin. He can't breath. There's panic rising in his chest. Constricting.  Strangling.  He struggles. Gasps. Smacks at his balmy skin. Kicks out at an invisible offender.

And then Merlin is there, hushing him like a defenceless newborn, quietly and with gentle but passionate affection.

“Arthur. Arthur,” he is murmuring, trying to draw him from his nightmare. Fingers are clasped at his wrists, holding them firmly to the floor. There is a red bruise blossoming on Merlin's cheek. “Shh, Arthur, you're just dreaming. It was only a nightmare. You're safe!” And Merlin's eyes are so real and earnest that Arthur can't not believe him.

Once he has settled they stare uncomfortably at one another until Arthur has enough wits about him to ask, “What are you doing here?” Disgruntled and shamed.

“I followed you,” Merlin states.

“You followed me?”

“Well, I couldn't leave you wandering about not knowing where you were going. But you've been heading in the right direction so far so I left you to it.” He searches the cave, peeks at Arthur as well. Notices the sweat clinging to his clothes and the fresh damp shine of his hair and face. “Still don't want to cash in that Favour I take it?”

“You're kidding. That's way too valuable to spend on a lift home. No thanks, Merlin, but I'll take my chances with the mountains.”

“Budge over then.”

Arthur sends an uncomprehending stare his way, frowns at the implication. “You're not coming with me.”

“Yes I am. You obviously can't take care of yourself so I'm going to have to.”

“No you're...okay, whatever, we can talk about this in the morning.”

“Fine, sure, so move over.”

“No! Find your own cave!” Arthur finds himself being shunted over anyway. He pretends not to feel himself relax when the tempting heat of Merlin's warmth plasters itself along his back. It's bloody cold.

“Sweet dreams, Arthur,” he vaguely remembers hearing before Merlin's calm breathing lulls him back to a more peaceful sleep.


End file.
